Extracts from the plague diary of Mark ne-Francois-Pepys
May 22nd 1665
Up, and a little before four by and by @Nigel_Farage come to us, by agreement, and he and I staid talking below while Hartley-Brewer and Bridgen dressed themselves, which vexed me that they so long
May 22nd 1665
Up, and a little before four by and by @Nigel_Farage come to us, by agreement, and he and I staid talking below while Hartley-Brewer and Bridgen dressed themselves, which vexed me that they so long
about it, keeping us till past five o’clock before ready and even then both with clothes inside out and back to front. Ready; and, taking some Monster, and Kestrel Super, and some doner meat with us into our coach towards Dover, with Farage trussed up like a spiteful trout,
Hartley-Brewer fulfilling twenty minute opinion quotas and Bridgen behind on a BMX, the M20 very pleasant and by eight o’clock to Maidstone Roadchef where shoulder to shoulder with other company, all displaying great common sense, we ’light, and drank the tap water: I did drink
four pints, and had some very good stools by it but Nigel increasingly constipated due to his dwindling media appearances, no luck. Thence to the Channel to sight migrants, that helpless humanity is the easiest to demonise, and if not fleeing war they must be intending on
starting such, and to say otherwise is the bleeding-heart nonsense of those freed of ignorance's crippling insecurity, and presently we prospect a dinghy, but in brave patriotic excitement whilst shouting ‘no surrender’ did sprain my right foot on a can of Monster
which brought me great present pain and screaming of ‘medic’ until Nigel applied an improvised Twister lolly ice pack and in the way of the drama both of us mightily seasick and into our cagoule pockets did purge bellyfuls of pot noodle, worse than any curdled milk;
further trouble when incapable-seaman Bridgen in efforts to retrieve his Nerf toys did go overboard and the nausea aboard HMS Spite preventing his rescue, we mighty relieved when the passing migrant raft took our soggy boy aboard. Further surprise upon discovering they were
English and fleeing the pitchforks and burning 5G towers atop the White Cliffs of Dover, and we incontinent, watched as these fearful souls headed for it, and my foot begins more and more to pain me, which Nigel, by keeping his pusillanimous hand upon did much soothe
and Hartley-Brewer now weeping that she used to like people, I surveyed the scene, that misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows, and we fell asleep on each other’s bile drenched shoulders and watched the sun by and by going down on England.
